break the lock if it don't fit
by puertoricanjane
Summary: He's cross legged on her bed, scowling with a black eye, looking half juvenile delinquent, half drenched rat in the midst of all her stuffed animals.


"It was a lucky shot," Yusuke grumbles. He's cross legged on her bed, scowling with a black eye, looking half juvenile delinquent, half drenched rat in the midst of all her stuffed animals.

"Sure," says Keiko, chair brought up along the bed because she refuses to join Yusuke in his puddle. She doesn't glance up from the hand towel she's fiddling with in her lap.

"It was." Yusuke's voice doesn't turn whiny, not exactly; some people get nasally, Yusuke gets belligerent and sulky. It's annoying. _He's_ annoying, and wet, and soaking up her sheets, and there's a paper on her desk that she really needs to finish.

"Uh-huh." And maybe she's more pissed off than she's letting on, and maybe she presses the ice pack a little harder than necessary, and maybe she relishes the way his face sort of spasms.

"Damn it, Keiko, that's fucking cold—"

"It's an ice pack, Yusuke; honestly, did you expect it to be hot—"

"—you should never be a nurse if this is your bedside manner, goddamn—"

"Oh, right, because there's people lining up around the block to patch you up," Keiko snaps, and it's a low blow, she knows it is, but she's just angry enough to not care.

Yusuke's left eye goes flinty; his mouth twists, the way it does when he's spoiling for a fight, and he's always spoiling for a fight, words or fists, it makes no difference. That's the whole problem and even while her anger sparks, flares, there's a monotony to it all that just leaves her empty. They argue in circles, and Yusuke leaves in a huff, and they bitterly ignore each other until either Yusuke caves and apologizes or shows up at her door wearing his latest battle trophy. Lather, rinse, repeat.

"Bet the old lady could do a better job than you," he spits, and she thinks, _hold your own damn ice pack_ , but doesn't budge a inch. Neither does he. Numbness settles in her fingers, compelling her to look at his hands, broad, tan, clenched over his knees. Knuckles scraped, not too badly, but there's always a risk of infection, hasn't she told him a hundred times?

"Believe it or not, but I don't sit around all day waiting for you to grace me with your presence. I have homework, which you'd know if you actually bothered showing up for school."

His face twists. "It's always about school with you—"

"School is important," she says. She doesn't know how to make him see that. _This is your future_ , she thinks. _If I nag it's because I want you to have one._

Yusuke snorts in scorn or disbelief, she doesn't know; probably a mixture of both. "School's boring. I've got way better things to do with my time."

"Oh yes, pachinko and fighting. However do you manage to fit anything into your busy schedule?"

"I don't start every fight, you know," says Yusuke and has the gall to look absurdly smug, "but I sure as hell finish 'em."

"And what a black eye to show for it. Truly, well done."

She already knows his next response, can just hear _those losers couldn't land a hit on me any other day of the week_ , and suddenly she's just so sick of it—the cycling, the repetitions, even their comebacks are tired—and he may be a fool, but she's starting to feel like the bigger one, wanting to keep someone like Yusuke safe.

Keiko brings her hand down from his face. "The swelling's gone down," she observes, tiredly, and Yusuke narrows both eyes, the idiot, then immediately winces.

"No thanks to you," he mutters, and she bites back the obvious retort, getting up to set the ice pack on her desk.

Her paper sits, mocking her silently.

Keiko stares, not thinking about school or grades, but the black eyes she's seen over the years, the split lips and knuckles. She thinks about stitches and disinfectant and keeping a first aid kit in her bottom drawer. She thinks about Yusuke at her door, rain or shine, bruised or bloody, slouching with his hands in his pockets. She thinks about how damn ungrateful he is, and reckless, and smug, and irritating.

She thinks about all this and says "Show me your hands," because he's all those things and more and she can't help but want to take care of him anyway.

There's something strange in his face when she turns around; not soft, no, the stubborn line of his mouth is still there, but he's not glaring like she expected. He looks at her through his bangs, damp with the water beating rhythm on the windows. It's been a while since she's seen him without gel in his hair. It makes him look younger, like a time machine that works.

Keiko swallows; raises a brow. "Well?"

He says, "Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time," and uncurls them from his knees.


End file.
